


Charlatan

by bklt



Series: Tether [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-13 05:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13563930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bklt/pseuds/bklt
Summary: Perhaps she was more like her mother than she thought; the constant, stifling feeling of stagnation and boredom, the thievery, the lies, the running. But it wasn’t just that—she was looking for a true connection too, and she had found it in Hawke.





	Charlatan

Kirkwall transformed into something unrecognizable during the winter. The white sheet of freshly fallen snow covered the cracks and dirt of the city, almost enough to forget its dilapidated, drab state during the rest of the year. The soft patter of pillowy snowflakes hit the tall windows of the Hawke estate, the sound a reminder of how good it felt to be inside. Hawke laid curled up to Isabela, the heavy red duvet keeping both of their naked bodies warm as the fireplace reduced to embers. Isabela absentmindedly stroked Hawke’s upturned hand with her thumb, tracing slow, small circles into her palm. She was fast asleep, her mouth parted comically and the red smear she always painted on smudged off from their night together. Her arm lay draped over Isabela’s waist, the rogue limb a loose tether rather than holding her close. The two of them didn't normally spend the night together. With their busy schedule, Hawke often needed to be alone (“You’re all exhausting,” she’d say half jokingly) and Isabela preferred to pass out in the Hanged Man. Yet, as the sun began to peek its way through the heavy red curtains, she was glad to have stayed in the warmth of Hawke’s bed.

She could wax poetic about moments like this, and often did. She would compose them on scraps of parchment, flowery prose and lewd poetry done in jest, almost too well written given the subject matter. Other times it was drunken introspection as incomprehensible scribbles that she couldn’t make heads or tails of in the morning. They all lay folded into tiny squares in her desk drawer, discarded pieces that were supposed to be saved for later. Hawke would pull them out and read them sometimes, squinting and not quite understanding what they meant. “You ought to go to Val Royeux. You could be a famous poet and die of alcoholism or wasting disease. It’d be very Orlesian,” she would say, or something to that effect. She liked just about everything Isabela wrote. It wasn't because it was particularly good, but because Hawke was so literal minded about anything artistic that a small inkling of a metaphor elevated even the worst things to something special.

Isabela didn’t notice Hawke stir while she was lost in thought. She raised an eyebrow quizzically, noticing Isabela was staring at her longer than the socially acceptable amount of time. “Reading my palm?” she said, sleepily indicating Isabela’s hand in hers. Hawke took her arm off of her waist and moved it up her forearm, encouraging Isabela to indulge her. “What fascinating insights does it have?”

“Hmm,” Isabela said in false contemplation. Feeling the calluses of Hawke’s palm with her own hardened fingertips, she channeled the memory of her charlatan mother. She looked like her, maybe, she thought—she could hardly remember anymore. The last image she had of her was a blurry face staring at the rotting floor, unable to look at her as she was given away for nothing but an empty promise that things would be better. What she could recall was the memory of her hunched figure, studying the palm of some poor ripped-off sod who spent too much coin for any answer to their troubled lives. When she felt wanderlust, she would bring Isabela on long escapades simply so she didn’t have to stay in place, as if the physical act of moving would somehow stir something deeper within. She recognized her mother’s trade for the grift it was, but she still had all of the lines memorized and the meaning that could be gleaned from them, as if hands were the only factor in deciding fate.

Isabela once thought her mother couldn't have merely done her readings out of the goodness of her heart, especially when she would partake in thievery and other tricks to get food on the table. So she would exchange lies for coin, pretty ones to be sure; but they were lies all the same, fooling people into believing something unattainable. Now, she thought, if someone had told her what she needed, things wouldn't have ended the way they did. The boredom and restlessness wouldn’t have become unbearable, and she wouldn’t have turned to the Qun in search for her own answers after she had given others so many. Maybe all the cards and charms were all to find a genuine connection, a way to feel like she helped people and had a purpose. Even if it was all ends to a means, it wasn't completely pointless. People needed to hear certain things, her mother once told her. Every sentient being wanted someone to tell them that something good can happen, even if they couldn't see it yet; the sick may need to hear that they’ll have a long life, a timid person that they're more decisive than they think. It was all to calm fears and to give them hope for an eventual someday. However impossible, she had a hand in shaping what would come next. She could see their grateful nods and how her clients walked out of their little home, head raised a little higher and seeing the world in a new, benevolent light.

Isabela refocused on Hawke’s palm and tried to make her voice as ethereal as possible. “This big line says you have strength and enthusiasm,” she said, making sure to use key jargon for added authenticity. “And how it curves shows you have a certain… stamina.”

Hawke chuckled. “Is that so? I’m sure my countless lovers appreciate it, then.”

“I’m sure they do,” Isabela winked. “Not too bad looking either.”

Hawke shook her head as best as she could against the pillow. “My palm told you that? My face is right here.”

“It did. It also told me that you absolutely feed off of flattery,” Isabela said, playfully poking where the line in question was supposedly located.

“Well, I suppose it isn't wrong. Tell me more about me.”

Isabela rolled her eyes and squeezed Hawke’s hand. Absolutely incorrigible. “See how this one separates from the other? It means you’re adventurous. You’re always running off to make some trouble and dragging your poor friends into it.”

“That definitely sounds like me,” Hawke nodded dramatically. “People always say I like to play big damn hero too often,” she said, repeating the words Isabela had said to her in exasperation many times before. “But I already know what I’m like. What about my future?”

Hoping to cover up her hesitation, she considered Hawke’s palm closer than necessary. She couldn’t be like her mother and promise Hawke things that wouldn’t come, even if what they were doing was just a silly game of pretend. But she knew that Hawke never looked to her for truth and answers, and she certainly wasn't looking for them now. She just wanted to hear anything from her, sweet nothings said to drive out the winter. That, she could give.

“Ah, I see. Of course.” Isabela’s voice grew soft and grandly sympathetic. “You’ve suffered a lot of hardship. Big things have happened to you, but you're strong. You’ve made it this far.”

“That sounds perfectly vague and not like that could apply to anyone,” Hawke said sarcastically, but her face betrayed her. She appreciated the sentiment, even if it was framed through their game.

Isabela went silent for a few moments. She wanted to chose her words carefully, something she wasn't used to. “From what I can tell, you’ll always try to do something good, to the annoyance of some people.” She smirked at Hawke, who mirrored her expression. “Whatever happens… you’ll figure it out. You always do.”

Hawke nodded contemplatively, her act dropping somewhat. “Cryptic.”

“That’s how these things are,” Isabela shrugged.

“Yes, but… thank-” she stopped herself, seeming to remember she was supposed to be acting. “It’s good to know.”

Isabela regarded her in brief fondness before falling back into character. “Though this one isn't so nice…” she said, looking at Hawke seriously.

“Oh no. Am I going to have eight children? Become a Grey Warden and die in the Deep Roads?” Hawke said, matching Isabela’s tone.

She shook her head gravely. “It says you're an irredeemable goose.”

Letting out a noise that was between a laugh and a scoff, Hawke pressed a cold foot into Isabela’s calf, making her gasp in surprise and roll near the edge of the bed.

“See? I was right!” She whipped a pillow at Hawke’s face with surprising speed, but Hawke expertly dodged out of the way as she let out a triumphant laugh.

“Ha! For once,” Hawke retaliated, reaching to grab Isabela close.

Isabela hummed and pressed into the embrace, feeling Hawke’s bare chest press into her back. It felt unfair that she could be so comfortable like this, when she was a liar wallowing in the mess she created any which way she spun it. Though she was no charlatan, she was still a thief who lived in her own mire of lies and half-truths. She didn't know what she would do when she finally had her hands on that damn Qunari tome, and she didn’t know if she had the courage to not flee in the dead of night and leave Kirkwall and Hawke behind. She couldn't bear to think about how Hawke would react once she was exposed, that those bright ocean-blue eyes that looked at her with such happiness would turn to ice, glazed with the sting of betrayal.

  
Perhaps she was more like her mother than she thought; the constant, stifling feeling of stagnation and boredom, the thievery, the lies, the running. But it wasn’t just that—she was looking for a true connection too, and she had found it in Hawke. People didn't know what she was like and few made the effort to try, but Hawke was slowly breaking that pattern. It was horrifying in a reverent sort of way, like looking out at raging waters from the deck of her ship that had long since sunk to the bottom of the sea. It was swimming to shore and climbing the jagged moss-slick rocks of the Wounded Coast, freezing and out of breath. It was being uncertain about the future and taking it one day at a time, because that’s all that could be done. That’s what she was; shipwrecked and lost, in all ways literal and figurative.

“You’re a bad liar, you know.”

Isabela’s breath hitched, a statement that seemed apropos of nothing matching her thoughts too well. “What do you mean?”

She nuzzled her face into Isabela’s thick curly hair as if to comfort her. For someone who so often couldn’t read a room to save her life, Hawke could sense her distress as clear as anything. Mercifully, if she had read her mind, she didn't show it, and Isabela could almost feel her grin radiating from behind her. “You don't really think I’m a goose, do you?”

“You're also a Hawke.”

“My, such masterful wordplay! You really are a poet.”

“Look, I’m just telling you what your palm says. It’s simple fact.”

“In that case, can you tell me one other thing?” She kissed Isabela’s shoulder softly, letting her lips linger for a moment. “Do you forsee a certain Rivaini pirate accompanying me to Lowtown? I have to pick up a few things. I might even get her one of those meat pies she likes so much.”

Giving one of her short, quiet laughs, she turned to face Hawke. “Sweet on the girl, are we?”

“Very much so. I was hoping she’d come with me, but I’m terribly shy.” She pressed her forehead onto hers and looked at her expectantly.

Isabela didn’t know what would happen when the time eventually came for her to decide if she would run or stay. The outcome could be shaped if only she were brave enough, and the prospect frightened her. For now, it was the little things like waking up with a head full of ideas to write about later, and the small promises she could make and keep. So she kissed Hawke’s nose gently, flashing a smile she didn't have to fake.

“I think I can see that in your future.”


End file.
